


You Must Know Life

by JDylah_da_Kylah



Series: You Only Meant Well? [10]
Category: Undertale (Video Game)
Genre: AFAB Frisk, Bedtime Stories, Chara Being An Asshole, Conflict Resolution, Everyone Needs A Hug, Experimental Style, F/M, Family Issues, Gen, Heavy Angst, Illustrated, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Implied/Referenced Self-Harm, Implied/Referenced Suicide, Love, Making Love, Nightmares, Non-Binary Frisk, Possession, Post-Traumatic Stress Disorder - PTSD, Post-Undertale Pacifist Route - "I want to stay with you.", Self-Harm, Soul Bond, Swearing, Unresolved Tension
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-03-10
Updated: 2017-03-10
Packaged: 2018-10-01 09:51:19
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 6,613
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10186820
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/JDylah_da_Kylah/pseuds/JDylah_da_Kylah
Summary: Sometimes everything must shatter in order to be built anew. Asriel wrestles with Chara, who however subtly keeps some strange hold on Frisk, his true best friend, his saving grace; Toriel preemptively tries to prove to Sans all the things he doesn't need to fear; Asgore still struggles to discern who now he is, with neither crown nor cause . . . and as some of them already knew, Perfect Happy Endings don't solve everything . . . because some things don't consider themselves problems to be solved.Or: "And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears."





	

**Author's Note:**

> "And after the storm,  
> I run and run as the rains come.  
> And I look up, I look up,  
> on my knees and out of luck,  
> I look up.
> 
> Night has always pushed up day.  
> You must know life to see decay.  
> But I won't rot, I won't rot:  
> Not this mind and not this heart,  
> I won't rot.
> 
> And I took you by the hand  
> And we stood tall,  
> And remembered our own land,  
> What we lived for.
> 
> And there will come a time, you'll see, with no more tears.  
> And love will not break your heart, but dismiss your fears.  
> Get over your hill and see what you find there,  
> With grace in your heart and flowers in your hair."  
> (Mumford & Sons, "After The Storm")
> 
> Full disclosure: I had paragraphs typed out here to cover my butt and explain my headcanon. But y'know what? It'll be okay. If anyone has questions, bring 'em up in the comments and let's chat! :)
> 
> I wasn't sure whether to rate this T or M, for what turned out to be many reasons. That having been said, I've read many "young adult" novels which were much more explicit in terms of both lovemaking and addressing issues of mental health and self-injury, so I didn't think it qualified for the higher rating, but . . . if you think it deserves an M, do let me know.
> 
> A few notes of credit where credit is due:
> 
> The idea of Chara's body being the last thing Asriel sees before his/Their joined body turns into dust, before he regains consciousness as Flowey, was inspired by [the accompanying animation](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=i_BQxudpyEE) to Amella's orchestral remix of "Megalovania." I saw that a while ago and tucked it away for future use. To quote Cave Johnson, I believe: The future is now.
> 
> I've dropped another hint about the book mentioned in [—When Our Souls Touched](http://archiveofourown.org/works/8673043) . . . anyone got a guess this time around? I think, or I hope, that it's more obvious.
> 
> Finally, Sans' reading Schopenhauer is sort of a joke. Schopenhauer was a nihilist who believed that there is such pain in life, and life itself ultimately means nothing, that a "happy" man is one who gets through life with the least amount of pain possible. In fact, Schopenhauer argued that it would really be better not to be born at all. 
> 
> Answering one joke for another, Sans doesn't find this satisfactory and picks up Nietzsche instead. (And this was another shameless bit of self-insertion: I enjoy his writings, quite a bit, and most of his ideas.) Nietzsche, while being a nihilist himself, challenged Schopenhauer's melancholia and suggested that really, it's possible to overcome the pain of life and make for yourself a life worth living, a life well-lived. (Indeed, "ubermensch" means more "overman" than "superman" . . . anyway, the will to keep living? The resolve to change fate? DETERMINATION is one word for that . . . )
> 
> Nietzsche also posited another idea, which will become pivotal in the next story (yes, I already have it planned, a bit).
> 
> Thoughts/reviews/comments'n'critiques are all very much appreciated, and I do hope you enjoy. <3

****

  _ **What was it you said to me so many times, comedian?**_

_**Oh. Yeah.** _

* * *

 

Alphys, so far, has pretty much nailed the night on the head.

* * *

Of course, Sans knows those texts of hers were just a joke, a riff on the anime they'd watched, but they were essentially how the evening's gone: Asgore was still there, of course, not doing much except often holding Asriel—when Tori wasn't, anyway. Papyrus had asked him to play some sort of Human game—a video game, Alphys had called it once—a "puzzle game." This particular game had simple enough controls but required a certain sense of spatial reasoning and logic: P'yrus sat and offered Sans (rather unsolicited) advice while the latter whisked through the thing in thirty minutes.

(But with that snarky-as-hell A.I., it didn't surprise him in the slightest that Alphys had recommended it . . .)

Still, P'yrus seemed happy with it, and there was something about how his younger brother looked at him adoringly as he solved those silly Human-crafted programmed puzzles which made the whole thing more than worth it.

* * *

So there'd been that, the game.

* * *

And later that night Frisk had triumphantly dug a library book from their backpack, thrusting it into his hands before crawling into bed and tucking the covers around Asriel. Papyrus, who usually requested the same books or stories many times over, glanced at the title, then at Sans, and finally the Human child—apparently content.

"I BELIEVE IT IS WHAT THE DOCTOR ALPHYS WOULD CALL 'SCI-FI,' BROTHER."

"yeah, bro, i think it is. heh. this up your alley, kid?"

Frisk had simply shrugged with that sly, sly smile of theirs which so often tells him all he needs to know.

"You said you'd read it to us someday, Sans. I found it at the library. The librarian helped me—I told him what you told me, about the kid not being able to sleep, and their mom making them hot chocolate, and then a time traveler shows up—and he thought it was funny. He said you didn't get it right, but he knew what book you meant. It's this one, right?"

"huh. i guess it is." Sans turned the book over in his hands a moment. "alright. asriel, this okay with you?"

A soft-petalled nod from the royal son. Sans tilted his head; if he didn't know better, he'd almost have sworn that those deep vermilion eyes, so much like Toriel's, were dark with sleep, the lids slung lowly over them as he fought off his weariness.

"heh."

He settled himself next to Papyrus, grateful for the pillow as a bunker between his backbone and the wall. "welp, frisk-o, i hope you like it. think i must've, once, even if i don't remember it so well. tell the librarian thanks for me, huh?"

Frisk had heaved an exaggerated sigh; of _course_ they would, but it was getting late by now and any moment Mom would come padding up the hallway, flicking off the light and kissing them goodnight—so could he please, _please_ just start reading?

"okay." Delicate phalanges trailed across the cover for a moment, opened to the title page, flipped through the contents until the real story began. He couldn't help but wince at the cracking of the spine.

"it was a dark and stormy night."

* * *

So, the story hadn't really been about two kids who slept under the stars.

* * *

But, two chapters in, when Toriel had come to kiss the little ones (and P'yrus) goodnight, Sans knew enough to reason out that it was a story about some of the deepest love. And, of course, time travel. And maybe the stars would come . . . or he could just cut Alphys some slack. He tucked both thoughts away, ruffled up Frisk's hair, stood looking at his brother for a moment. Before Tori shut the door, he gently reached out, gently, feeling Asriel weave a single tender tendril through his metacarpals.

Something had passed between them, Tori realized as she watched them, something from yesterday, that eerie day, when—

The children had been fine, all things considered, if one subtracted the Human child's upset stomach and Asriel's shy-desperate clinginess.

But Sans—

When Asriel uncurled himself, it had been her turn to reach for the skeleton's silently-proffered hand: well enough she knew that no vines had she to weave therein around his bones, but the shelter of flesh and the softness of fur about her form (and his) were comforting enough.

* * *

He wonders vaguely if Al will be right about the last bit, too.

* * *

The door sighs as she closes it, the old, old bolt and knob both worn and greased enough to slip silently home: not even a snap, just the whisper-hush of wood. Despite his idle curiosity, Sans also knows that there have been many questions dancing at her tongue, questions she hasn't dared to ask last night or today for fear of the company they kept, though Asgore's quiet joy in simply sitting there, holding his son, had been enough to smooth over the worst moments of awkwardness.

Despite the Human child's optimism, the day hadn't gone as planned, now that the fear from yesterday was worn: the emotions of the adults, centuries in being borne and coming finally to fruition, proved at times too difficult to manage: sharp words and looks much worse than words were slid between the three of them, however diplomatic a façade they bore. Frisk was no stranger to disputes among adults but somehow they'd hoped that their Monster-kin were . . . better . . . than all that.

But Monsters, of course, feel just as strongly as Humans do, if not more-so: beneath the tension flared the undulations of their SOULs, the twisting of them, the buried fear-pain-worry-sorrow impossible to hide. The long-dead son returned in second-form, scarred but living, still. The memories of Chara, resurrected, now forever somehow so, forever tangibly, in random flashes from Frisk's eyes when even Frisk themself didn't seem to know. The ex-wife with her beloved . . .

Toriel had hid her fear when Sans quietly excused himself, even more-so when the early afternoon didn't see him back. Too fresh in her mind were memories of the last time he'd been gone—when he'd returned only to be filled with an aching, needful sorrow that wasn't at all about the love they made after—he smelled of the mountain—the place where Chara, Frisk—where so many children more—had come to die.

 _But he has come back, he will always . . ._ She dared not think then of yesterday, either, when one step into the darkness whorled him and her children into the great unknown: when returning had almost destroyed him.

Last night everyone was too keyed up for any sort of rational conversation; Asgore stayed late; no one slept well; the children all squeezed into Sans' and Tori's bed, and morning found the same chaos dropped down into the house again. The questions no one's dared to ask. The little truths that are all-too-rapidly creeping from the shadows.

Morning saw Sans' absence: afternoon brought his return.

Games with Papyrus. Supper shared around the great, scrubbed table, a bit more crowded now with Asgore. An evening in the living room with pie, and reading the children a bedtime tale.

Normalcy, almost.

Asgore left some time ago, Toriel was glad to see; her heart ached, as she knew his did—to see their son—

Almost normalcy—not quite.

She sinks into the bed, stares at the shuttered door, feels Sans stand there for a moment before shucking off his coat and kicking at the floor until he's found last night's pajamas.

"I am sorry that this day was difficult," she murmurs finally.

"didn't want to get in the way, tori, that's all."

"How could you ever be—?"

A rustling of cloth; back turned to her, he pulls on a shirt. "too many of us in the house today. even the kiddos noticed, tori: there's a lot that we, uh, we need to talk about."

"Asgore did not understand what happened yesterday. He asked where you had taken them—our son."

"and?"

"He does not have much faith in Monsters of science anymore."

"hm." The day with Alphys was equally bizarre as any day with Asgore, but perhaps his talk with her was much more needed: better that than he and the Boss Monster dancing around each other furtively, unable to find much common ground except Tori. "well, i kept my promise."

"That I have never doubted, dear one."

She reaches out with gentle claws to trace his scapula, startling him from a pensive slouch. "You are but half-dressed." A low chuckle's threaded there throughout the words.

"just tired, tori. eh. that's all." He shifts, at once leaning into her touch and pulling on a pair of shorts. "we have to be careful, huh? navigating all of this. a lot of people could get hurt. i didn't stay today 'cause . . ."

"There are buried hurts between us—Asgore and me." Toriel ducks her head a moment. "Wounds never addressed: neither dressed nor healed. Seeing our son . . . after he died . . . so much went wrong for us. For all of us, all Monsterkind, and . . . If you add what our child—Asriel—said about our Chara . . . I do not know, dear one. It is much to reconcile within _my_ mind, let alone between us all . . ."

"that's why i left. you had enough. didn't need me there on top of it."

The soft, insistent pressure of her hand against his shoulder, a subtle coaxing of his SOUL: Sans turns and crawls into bed beside her, letting her gather him against her chest, much as she often does with Frisk if they have nightmares. "But I _do_ need you here. Do not ever doubt that."

They linger for a moment there, each lost to the other's rhythms: he the rise and fall of every breath she takes, her exhalations warm against his skull; she the steadfast weight of him, the labyrinth, all the places her hands still have yet to wander, no matter how many times . . . She'd sensed the sharp discomfort in his SOUL earlier today, amidst the tension, and in remembering can't help but wince, but manifest her sorrow and regret as the gentlest trail of light.

_To feel him yesterday . . . fractured . . . as if . . . what if . . ._

"But you have kept some secrets from me, dear one."

"hm."

"I do not blame you!" she whispers fiercely, feeling him relax beneath her touch, corporeal and otherwise. "Sans, I do not blame you. I have always worried for you, dear one, always been afraid of losing you, of something happening . . . but . . . I do not . . . you must know . . ."

She draws a deep breath, working at the words a moment. He shifts, eyesockets deep in the half-lit night, those pinpricked pupils of his fastening on hers: a silent kind of plea. _don't give me any pity. please._

"As your . . ." Toriel feels heat creep to her cheeks, wondering suddenly at words that seem too sacred to speak aloud. "As someone who loves you very much . . . I will always worry. But this does not change anything for me." A sudden flicker in her eyes, sure realization. "Do you fear . . . did you keep it a secret . . . because you feared I'd treat you differently, dear one?"

He seems to consider this a moment, decides not to answer, lets her answer to his own of silence be a litmus test.

* * *

He can't really sleep, has never slept, not in this form—and too much time this is, alone with his thoughts—

But when he opens his eyes—

Opens his eyes—

( _Has_ he slept, then? Or does his mind deceive him—?)

Opens his eyes—

* * *

_The weight against his eyes is heavy. The soft and solid earth beneath him is not soft for soil's sake but for the flowers there, the golden flowers, buttercups, he thinks—buttercups they must be—those are Dad's favorite—_

_A shudder seizes him, and he remembers now that it isn't really him, not wholly, not anymore—will never be—it's Them. But Chara—their SOUL—he does not feel it as he used to, as he did when he wrested control from them over Their form—it's—he doesn't know—_

_His eyes are heavy, yes, but still he opens them, opens them to a fractured world, a gold-cast world tainted in hues of red and cyan light as final consciousness begins to fail him. He sees nothing, really, nothing besides the multitudinous and nauseous blur—except—_

_The child sleeping beside him._

_The child's empty form._

_The child who will never wake up again, whose SOUL he took, whose SOUL he loved, still loves, despite all this, despite this form where suddenly he knows everything about them because there is no room for secrets anymore—_

_The child who would destroy Humanity—_

_His eyes are heavy; the world flickers and grows dark; in vain, he reaches for their hand, the lifeless hand—he doesn't understand—but so it is—the human child's form but not Chara at all, a shell and nothing more—_

_The last, last thing he hears before even Their great and terrible body dissolves into dust, as one day all Monsters' must, is simply an echo from the Human child's SOUL, a sharp spray of their laughter, even though the dead-sleeping Human child is long past laughter now._

* * *

His eyes are heavy.

A child sleeps beside him, now. Again?

Asriel peeks out from between curled petals, loathe to look and knowing not what else to do.

It is only Frisk.

But Frisk is not merely themself, no more than Their joined form was merely two SOULs in one body. It was a symbiosis—

He swallows, sees Frisk shift, sees one eye open languidly to meet his own.

* * *

**Asriel.**

* * *

The child does not move their lips—indeed, but for that slivered eye, he's sure Frisk is unaware—sure Frisk might at most conceive this as a dream, no more—if even that—

The voice, as in this form of his was so often the case, chortles there inside his mind.

* * *

_Don't hurt them._

He's said _that_ how many times?

Laughter—always, always laughter from Chara—for such an . . . unhappy . . . child, why are they always laughing?

**So now you ask for worthless pity.**

_Don't hurt them._

His only weapon, that most fragile of litanies . . .

_Please, please don't hurt them . . ._

**How much** _**you** _ **have suffered? Do you forget me, forget that you killed** _**me** _ **?**

_Please . . ._

_**I** _ **already died, remember? I already died for us, for** _**Us.** _ **But thanks to you—**

_I c-couldn't let you kill . . . you'd have . . . We'd have . . ._

**Why the HELL then were you on MY side? When it was MY turn?**

**(And then you betrayed me—)**

_I n-never wanted to betray you, Chara. You . . . you l-lied to me. W-what else was I supposed to do?_

**We would have freed everyone. Wasn't that the point?**

_Y-you know how you meant it! N-no, I w-won't listen to you, Chara, not a-anymore—I'm—I'm sorry for what happened to you—what m-made you this way—but—but—_

**What was I, Asriel, after We died? A MEMORY. A NIGHTMARE. I was FORGOTTEN. You—you** _**never** _ **were. The Monsters all told Frisk YOUR name. But never mine. Never mine. So what was I? A memory. Something for that king to cry over, something for** _**her** _ **to canonize. Ha. Pathetic. She never thought a Human kid was capable of violence—**

 _Stop._ Stop _. Please, please stop it._

 **Now it's through our Frisk but** _**you've** _ **seen me for who I am;** _**he** _ **has, too, the funny man—**

**I WILL NOT BE FORGOTTEN.**

* * *

A smile—a smile—no smile of the child Frisk's.

And then they stir again, a sigh; their eyes rove briefly there behind closed lids until the body shifts, shuddering to wakefulness; Asriel hardly dares to look until a gentle hand is laid there against one of his vines.

Frisk's voice, thick and sleep-slurred. ". . . Asriel? H-hey . . . 's okay, As . . . riel . . . it'll be okay . . . jus' a dream, an' . . . hm . . . I'm right here, okay?"

They wrap the blankets more tightly around his pot—futile gesture though it is, it means the world to him—and he buries himself against them, head tucked just beneath their chin, feeling them giggle when his petals tickle their cheek. But scarcely as sleep snares them once again do they realize how he trembles.

* * *

Sans blinks in shock when one massive claw catches at his wandering phalanges. Tori's never, to his recollection, not once suggested that they change this dance of theirs, the comfortably cadenced routine. It's not that they've never surprised each other—that's happened more times than they can count—but this—

"Too many times . . ." Tori's breath is quick, is warm; oftentimes he's thought of picking up P'yrus' façade of breathing, just for her, for moments such as this—until he realizes that to be with her and be something other than _himself_ would be the greatest sacrilege . . . "Too many times, dear one, have you given me . . . rapture . . ."

(She shifts, taking great care in the shifting, great care that he might feel the undulations of her body as she moves; too lost is he in those subtle, exquisite sensations to notice that she's laid him down, so gently . . .

That her shadow covers him . . .)

". . . long before our SOULs . . . ah. Ha. Dear one . . ."

She feels then the insistent trail of him, the cyan threads, the unspoken question that he cannot speak because suddenly there are bright lights in his head and he doesn't really have the words. Their SOULs know too well the rhythm; she feels his hand clench around her own, wondering why suddenly this alteration; why suddenly this denial of what he's thought—he's known—has so often pleased her—

". . . you have asked no rapture for yourself. And yet I know these bones of yours . . ."

Fangs trace faintly then his clavicle, and then one broad-sprung rib; she ducks her head, lets her breath whuffle there across his spine, the concentrated sway of his hips; she feels him tremble from, lean into it, at once: that time-old paradox that she herself knows all too well.

Vainly, now, he tries to speak.

"Shh. Dear one . . ."

Her SOUL is all soft-soothing indigo, a gentleness to cradle him, envelop him; but somehow, this time, it's different, different because even as he hears her gasp, he knows it's because of what she does to him, that same tremored echo of his pleasure resonating through her SOUL—

He'd never once have asked for this—

(He . . . does not . . . deserve . . .)

But then, but then, waves on waves of indigo wash over him, almost blinding him, swaddling, ensnaring: his SOUL follows the sway of those caresses, the rhythm counter-kept by the playing of her hands, the kisses intermittently of soft muzzle and fangs; she's touched all of him, of course, but kissed—ah—not yet, not everywhere—

Still he reaches out, broad-flaring cyan flashes now, all soft-edged—always soft light for Toriel, always—he feels the vibrations of her cry as surely as if it were by his hand that such a cry was wrought—and then, distantly, he doesn't regret quite so much the fact that she hasn't let him touch her—

But that light and warmth of hers, the earnest yearning but to share with him what he's given her—

This is not from pity.

Nor is it from fear.

Indigo flares bright; her SOUL and body tremble; she shifts, seeking something, he-neither-knows-nor-cares—it doesn't matter—he presses his body against hers, breathing deep the scent of her, the sweat and sweetness both, feeling her clutch reflexively at him, fingers so gently even in that desperate grasp conforming to him, for what and all he is—even in this moment, she seeks no Monster made of flesh but _him_ , but only him—

The veritable Boss Monster, queen-mother-lover-friend, is laughing softly at him, laughing as she shudders there, weary but undaunted, coaxing him, cajoling, with all gentleness and love reminding him that he is no less deserving than she of this same sweet rapture, of both body and of SOUL.

_tori—_

Her hands are dancing there again, in-and-between his ribs, along his spine, slipping along his clavicle and dropping back across his scapula and down, again, down the spine again—

"t-tori—"

"All is well," she breathes, the same lullaby she's sung to him so many times becoming the newest rhythm now to ease him into this—for what has he to fear? Losing control? Yes, certainly that's it— "All is well, dear one—"

Finally, then, finally magic flares up from his SOUL and bones alike, an uncontrolled, uncontrollable arpeggio when he can't know that her name has become a chant, his cries running one into another—

Shaken to his core and oh-so-tired but—he doesn't know—cathartically enthralled—his thoughts slowly coalesce— _that—tori—you—did that—for me—?_

_(. . . why?)_

Of course she can't read his mind, but surely she catches the echoes of his SOUL, the sudden snap of reality returned: her muzzle is a soft play against his skull when he burrows there beside her, feeling her broad arms wrap around him; the sweet haze of their coupling, magical and otherwise, heavy and heady in the room. "Dear one, I am but returning what many favors you have been given me."

* * *

Toriel wakes early, before the sun itself is up; Sans has shown her how to set an alarm on her phone, although she's long since promised with a smile not to use it. Ah, those days are soon to be behind them, though: months now Monsters have been on the Surface and slowly, slowly Toriel's been working towards her dreams, the fulfillment of her hopes . . . Frisk has been wrapped up in their own schooling, catching up from what they missed while in the Underground—but so it was that Toriel first met a Human teacher—a Human teacher who had a heart as good as Frisk's—

A heart of gold, as it turned out.

A heart of justice.

And it was unjust, this teacher knew, that Monsterkind and Human children should be schooled separately from one another. What a foolish thought, if the Surface world again they were to share! If the children could not learn to live and thrive in peace, what future was theirs? What would they inherit, if the adults could not learn to do the same . . . ?

Who better then to bridge the gap than such a kind-faced, gentle-hearted Monster, the adoptive mother of the Human child who had lived—who had done more than that—who had disappeared and then with them at their resurrection brought freedom to a race too long cast into exile for prejudice and fear?

So now she's up before the sun, up to keep a secret of her own: quietly she's been studying the materials she's been given by this teacher, this second Human SOUL of justice she's encountered. There will be exams, she's heard, and certain practicum, but as laws and regulations concerning Monster culture and Humanity's are as-yet unfixed . . . there won't be anything concrete in doing soon. Still, though . . . still . . . many mornings now she's woken early to read in the living room by lamplight until sunrise.

Sometimes, if Sans has not slept well, if his mind has not been kind to him, he’ll join her. Lately he’s been dog-earing (much to her chagrin) some book by a Human named Nietzsche, after having set aside someone else named Schopenhauer . . .

* * *

Such peace is not to be today.

On great padded feet she's given pause outside the other bedroom door; Papyrus stirs early, himself, though now that there's no Royal Guard to train for, there seems little point—perhaps it's a comfort, that old habit . . . but . . . This is not the clatter of his bones, is not Frisk's step—

". . . Asriel?" The name, the sacred name, is a whisper, hardly a whistle past her teeth. "Asriel, my son . . . ?"

  
There comes a muffled _thunk_ ; no cause now for modesty—soundlessly she pushes wide the door—finds her son in the middle of the room, struggling to pull himself towards her, vines straining against the game gravity plays with the heavy, soil-laden pot—not for the first time now does she curse the house's old and cracked foundation and the sloping floors—

Hastily she scoops him up, holds him, feels him shivering, that same dread-sick expression scrawled across his face as she's seen too many times before.

"Come now, my love . . ."

With the door closed quietly then on the sleeping skeleton and Human child, Toriel bears him into the living room, curling up in the couch that's little more than chair to her, pressing him against her chest and letting his head rest on her shoulder. No SOUL has he (or so she's heard) but still it seems that some part of him, far deeper than his form, is crying out to her, a voiceless cry, a sharp-desperate plea—

A hiss escapes her when suddenly the writhing stem beneath her stroking paws flares _sharp_ , when suddenly thorned spines snare against her flesh.

"N-no—M-Mommy—I . . . I—"

She feels him curl in towards himself, again, again, the same thorns—manifestations of his magic, if not of his SOUL—as had wounded her now perilously close to piercing his own form: to tearing petals, leaves—

"My son! Be careful. Shh. See, dearest, I am fine. Look, Asriel, look here . . ."

Warily he opens his eyes, catches a flare of indigo light, sees the pinprick wounds struck there against her paws vanish, vanish . . . And then that same reassuring light, one of his earliest of memories, washes over him—he feels through it her fear for him but no asking for him to speak—

Only for that silence does he know he can.

"Mom. I thought about Chara. When I saw Frisk sleeping there, I thought of . . . them."

"Now then, sweet one . . ."

But Toriel's voice bears a thread he can't deny, that uncertainty as always arises whenever anyone remembers now that Frisk is not only Frisk . . .

"What can we do to help you, son of mine?"

—and that, and that, almost exactly the question Asgore had asked him—last night, it was—last night when everyone else was distracted—Sans and Papyrus by that Human game; Frisk by watching Tori cook . . .

_"What can we do to help you, son? This . . . reincarnation . . . of Chara, and our Frisk . . . I do not want any danger coming to you, son. Or to the child. What can we do? Would you"—and here the former king had lowered his voice even more, a basso rumble that shook Asriel to the core as if he felt the reverberations through the earth—"would you care to stay with me a while?"_

But a bewildered look and cry from an eavesdropping Frisk had ended that, Frisk toddling into the kitchen with their arms full of serving-dishes that they nearly dropped from shock. Asgore had said no more, no more . . .

What not a one of them seemed much to realize was how tangled up they were, the three of them—Frisk, Asriel, Chara . . . And forget himself, he feared not for himself, but for their Frisk—

"It was just . . . something I want to forget . . ."

And he sounds so weary, as she rocks him there, that however much she might yearn to coax more from him, she knows it's not her place. But Toriel dislikes it, all of it, the secrets and the wounds unhealed and that implicit threat, always, of RESETs—the loss Sans has always feared—

"Mom?"

"heya, tori."

"PRINCE ASRIEL?"

Mother and son both give a start, the soft chorus of familiar, much-loved, well-intentioned voices still, somehow, intrusive . . . in the best way possible, both of them know . . .

The great Boss Monster spreads one arm, a summons, beckoning the Human child as good as the child of her flesh to join him in her lap; the warm, loving thrum of her SOUL wraps itself around them, all of them, until even Papyrus, blushing shyly still, approaches near enough to wrap his arms around them there—Sans, eyeing the tangle warily, twists his grin wryly and in soundless cyan words as good as takes Tori by the hand, offering a figurative shoulder on which she can lean, a quiet reassurance.

Thusly they stand for a few moments, as the sun begins to rise, as the sky waxes golden and gleaming and full. Frisk casts a glance to Sans, relieved that seeing him standing there amidst the light does not feed them instead a nightmarish smear, a smattering, of timelines past and all the iterations of the Judgment Hall—and when he looks at them, those lightpoints in his eyesockets are bright; where so many times there flashes fear in him, this time, at least—and always at its core—it's love.

* * *

 "You . . . wanted to see me?"

The morning's broken and the breakfast dishes have been cleared; it was Asriel, with Frisk acting as transcriber, who crafted the text message sent to Asgore, as brought the former king of Monsters here, now seated at the crowded table once again.

This time, though, amidst the morning light rather than the yellow lamp above their heads sole source of brilliance in the night, there's something different. There's a steadfastness to how Toriel still holds Sans' hand—steadfastness but not unkindness, no—and a look of resolution on the Human child's face. Even Papyrus, the endearing one, is here, although apart from opening the door with an enthusiastic "GREETINGS, YOUR MAJESTY!" he's been eerily quiet and attentive.

Asgore's great paws are really too small to hold the teacups with which Tori's stocked her shelves, but strangely tea does not appeal to him just now. The steam and vapors tickle at his nostrils, catching in his beard. Alphys, to his surprise, had asked to simply sit with him on the porch last night, as the sun went down—it was beginning to be warm enough for that—perhaps that unseasonably warm day was the true herald of spring . . .

The former royal scientist ( _he'd_ never have fired her . . .) hadn't said a word, just sat with him in the silence.

He knows now that whatever happened yesterday, or the day before, and whatever Sans had to do with it . . . _that's_ why he's here.

Asriel steals a vine across the table; Asgore frowns, noticing the marks where thorns had erupted from his stem without fully understanding. Frisk shifts, loose sleeves shaken from their arms as they nudge him closer, that his father might be easier to reach; before they settle back into their chair again he sees—

Impulsively he reaches out, offering his other hand to them; when they willingly wrap their fingers around his own, he isn't sure what he expects to feel—the thrum of evil in that grasp—the echoes of a tainted SOUL—the resonance of Chara's—but it's none of those, oh no: just Frisk, and only Frisk . . .

"Yes, Asgore, we did." Toriel's deep vermillion eyes take in his form; stoic though her visage is, she pities him; the same unspoken language, the exchange between their SOULs, as yesterday filled the house with such damn tension now seems as soothing a balm as that sweet-soft morning light. "We must do what we should have done when we first reached the Surface, rather than be bedazzled by this world. We must make _plans_ , Asgore."

"Frisk is our ambassador," the great king rumbles slowly. "And the Humans have begun to accept us, have given us all homes and even vacant shops for businesses . . ."

"The house we live in now is sinking on its foundation. The buildings given to our own shopkeepers were largely derelict, the relics of Humans' own failures. The laws that they debate, even now, in their own courts—our legal protection—are hardly set in stone. The whole world of the Humans, Asgore, is so much bigger than the Underground. This is but one country, but a smattering of towns; there is yet the whole world out there . . . do you see?"

Crimson eyes flicker then to Frisk, who peers up at him from the shadow of their bangs.

"When I'm older, and I've learned a lot, I'll do my best, Asgore."

"But they are just a child." Toriel's claws card carefully through their hair. "They are just a child, and the responsibility is not entirely their own."

"So what do you propose? Many Monsters are fitting in quite well—Mettaton is having sold-out shows, so Alphys says—"

"Because when Humans are not afraid of what is new, they tend to gawk at it and trivialize it and make it an attraction—and I understand that Mettaton wants to be a star, Asgore—but most of us? For most of us . . ." She shakes her head, remembers the Human with the SOUL of justice, steels herself to speak a hard truth, one with sharp edges, all of it, one which he must hear and heed or else it will be no act of MERCY.

"As I said, Asgore, we must begin to make plans for the future, for our future. It cannot rest on the Humans alone, nor on our Frisk. For example . . ." Her gaze wanders now, around the table; Papyrus leans forward expectantly, sensing the charging of the air; when she glances once at Sans, it's to find a subtle knowing in his eyes. "For example, I am educating myself so that I may become a teacher of both Monster children and Humans."

"Your SOUL—Tori, your SOUL has always sung out such a dream! What could you have to learn?"

"By the Humans' laws, I must learn much." She withdraws her hand from Sans', ceases stroking the Human child's head, folds those massive paws into her sleeves. "This is what I mean, Asgore. The world is much more complicated now, and whatever hopes and dreams we had of being Surface-side are solely our own to realize. This is not the world as it was before the war. Humans have . . . done much . . . in all these years. As have we."

A heavy sigh, a shifting of broad shoulders. "What are you asking of me, dear?"

"I would like to offer you a job, Asgore. Once I complete my credentials, it is my hope—with Frisk's current teacher—to open a school which welcomes all children, Human and Monster. Such a school will need a gardener."

The great king tilts his head, stares down at his son, at the too-small teacup cradled so carefully between his filed claws.

"You are a not a king, Asgore, but you are more than what you have become. Despondency does nothing. Hoping on false hopes does nothing. You have had too many centuries of that. Please. Do not settle for what has become; make a life of true peace for yourself, dear one."

There is a brush of cyan light against her SOUL when her voice cracks, finally.

"KING ASGORE! YOU WILL BE ABLE TO CARVE THE BUSHES INTO—"

"—the shape of your head? As monuments to the one and only, to the great Papyrus?" Despite himself, Asgore grants the skeleton a chuckle. "Yes, so you've hinted, many times . . .

"Tori." Another sigh. "Tori, you are right. I have been hoping for too long and never acted on my hopes. To be a family again . . . I have been chasing dreams." Crimson eyes glitter there with tears; from his potted refuge, Asriel gives a sympathetic sniff. "You . . . this is your happiness, your family . . . and yet . . ."

He gestures futilely towards Frisk, doesn't dare mention the other name.

"And yet there is so much we cannot seem to plan for."

"there never is." Sans speaks up at last, hands shoved into his pockets when Toriel slipped hers in her sleeves. "so. let's talk about that, too."

* * *

Silence at the table: hard, obtrusive, it turns the soft gold light to something harsh.

* * *

**I am not a PROBLEM to be solved, you damn stupid fool—**

* * *

Frisk's hands clench at the table. The whole world spins, gold waxes dark, gold waxes **RED.**

It's not like that time when Sans tore them all through the darkness, when Asriel told his sorry tale, when they were driven to the mountain or when they first picked up a knife or when—

No—this—

Frisk feels themself—they don't know—don't know—they can't breathe, can't think—Chara's _screaming_ —obscenities that don't make sense—the perversion of a child swearing without knowing how but knowing _exactly_ what they mean—

They call for help, crying out into the darkness, even though their tongue is bound and their throat is tight and they don't make a sound; dimly they feel a flash of indigo, of cyan more strongly still, fear _rage_ losslove—and helplessness—

Their SOUL burns within them, burns and runs like the blood in their veins; the body—not really their own, not now it feels, nor has it ever truly been?—curls in upon itself, as so often has Asriel—curls in and where he would have turned thorns against petals and stem, so wild nails claw at whatever can be reached—fragile skin of hands and the echoes of old wounds along their arms—

Chair crashes.

Teacup.

Pot—

That crash never resonates.

Failure.

* * *

**Someone caught the crybaby?**

**Well. Damn.**

* * *

" **I . . . am** _ **not**_ **. . . a problem to be solved**."

Someone holds them, holds them with astounding strength as the body flails and kicks and screams. The table's kicked by a wayward foot hell-bent on destruction and teacups go flying. Asgore has long since taken Asriel from the room—Tori doesn't know where—it doesn't matter—it's somewhere safe—if she's granted Sans that trust, she'll give it to the old king, too—

But this—but—

* * *

"Frisk—child—Frisk, dearest—"

"toriel. this isn't frisk."

"BROTHER—FRISK?—"

"P a p y r u s—please—get out of here—"

"BUT I CAN'T JUST—"

" _go_ —"

* * *

And Sans—as somehow he manages to hold the child—to pin their arms behind their back lest nails scratch more bloody wounds—the risk he's taking now—in the back of Toriel's mind dances the memory of his fractured SOUL—1 HP—that's all—that's all—

Cyan magic's pouring from his bones, his eye; that smile now of his is—

"We must help them," she chokes, SOUL a mess of indigo-flung flares— _Oh please, dear child, dear sweet Frisk, please come back—please—_

" **Help**?" The child opens wide their mouth, wide, wide in the most malicious grin as grim tears run down their cheeks to mingle with the spit and blood trickled from a bitten lip. " **You think you can help? All you did was try to help. And you never saw me for who I really was. For what I am**."

A surge of strength wrenches one arm from the skeleton's grasp and the child swings it up, swings out, a savage, swiping blow with blood-caked nails—Toriel stumbles, startled, silent now—injured but not gravely so—not yet gravely so—Sans stares at her, dark-eyed, and realizes why it must be—the _only_ reason he doesn't end this here and now—

_because our frisk—_

* * *

( _You will not hurt Mom! I won't let you. I won't let you. I will not_

_will not_

_let_

_you)_

* * *

_kiddo, c'mon—_

_come back._

* * *

**What was it you said to me so many times, comedian?**

**Oh. Yeah.**

* * *

The child flings their head back—Sans can hear their neck crack—and the face that stares at him is the face which has never left his mind—the child flings their head back and laughs at him, laughs with that gaping mouth and eyes which don't bespeak madness but something inhuman, unforgiveable—

" **Go to hell**."

**Author's Note:**

> Welp. This got a helluva lot darker than I had intended. I _wanted_ a Perfect Happy ending. I really did. And I fought this for so long because that's _all_ I wanted for these characters. I wanted Humanity to accept Monsters with open arms and Chara to be pacified or laid to rest somehow and Frisk could keep their promise to Sans without a shred of doubt.
> 
> But I'm a firm believer in the idea that characters speak to a writer, although this time around the _chara_ cters gave me this instead, no matter how many rewrites I attempted. So, after a couple weeks of staring at it and raging, I'm just going to let it be.


End file.
